Condensed Soup on the Rocks
by waitingondaisies
Summary: When Harry had been captured by Voldemort, he had expected that he would be tortured. What Harry didn't expect was the 'food' that Voldemort would feed him.


Looking around his cell, Harry knew that he wouldn't find anything more interesting to look at than he had the last several times he'd scanned the four boring, grey, stone walls. Frankly, he hadn't thought it was possible to be this bored while he was Voldemort's captive, but he supposed that life was full of surprises.

Harry thought that he was being left alone for so long as a new form of torture– that the uncertainty of when he would next be actually tortured was supposed to be, in itself, painful. But Harry knew that Voldemort would do what he wanted to him, and that there was nothing he could do to stop it from happening.

His acceptance of this fact was what allowed him to lean back against the uncomfortably cold and hard wall and survey his cell in boredom.

Once more, he cataloged the single window that was much too high in the wall for Harry to peer out of, the one that he was nonetheless thankful for because it provided him some light to see by. Because, as he turned his eyes to catalogue the rest of the cell, it was immediately obvious that the cell had no door at all.

When Voldemort– or, more frequently, a Death Eater– brought Harry out of his cell for another round of torture, they simply vanished a portion of the wall.

And, speaking of the Death Eaters, Harry thought he could hear one approaching now. He wondered if they were here to bring him out for another round of torture with Voldemort or if they were just going to walk past his cell in an attempt to worry Harry more.

Then Harry heard Voldemort's muffled voice cast, "_Evanesco_." And Harry's heart began to pound.

Because it had not been all that long since his last round with Bellatrix, and he wasn't nearly recovered enough to withstand a visit from Voldemort himself. So, as Voldemort walked into the cell, Harry's hands began to shake and his body tensed up– which painfully aggravated all the small cuts littering his body from his session with Bellatrix's knife.

But then Harry realized that Voldemort was holding a silver platter with a single flute filled with an indeterminable brown substance that was placed right in the center of the platter. The shaking in his hands eased somewhat as confusion began to crowd out the fear.

He wondered if Voldemort had decided to poison him, because whatever was in the flute did not look like food, and it hadn't been long enough since he'd last been given his meager amount of bread and water for it to be time for more food.

"Dinner is served," Voldemort said, placing the platter on the ground.

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but all that left his mouth was a strangled croak. His throat had clearly not yet healed adequately to allow him to speak yet, and he was sure that the pitiful amounts of water he received were insufficient to ease his throat's healing.

In lieu of a response, Harry simply remained where he was propped up against the far wall of the cell and glared at where Voldemort had remained standing over the platter. He saw that Voldemort had neglected to replace the wall he'd vanished, and wondered idly if he ought to try making a break for it.

"You _will_ eat your dinner, Potter," Voldemort said firmly, drawing his wand slowly.

This galvanized Harry into action. He slowly and unsteadily climbed to his feet and made his way over to the platter– and, consequently, to the hole in the wall. As Harry approached, Voldemort flicked his wand over his shoulder; the wall reformed behind him, crushing any vague hopes of escape Harry had harbored.

Harry carefully bent down to pick up the flute and eyed it carefully. He could see that 'brown substance' was a good descriptor for what the glass contained, because whatever it was was nearly solid, and also a disgusting shade of brown. Harry could now see that there were several ice cubes sitting on top of the brown substance. They slid around, colliding with both each other and the sides of the glass when he swirled the flute.

Disgustingly, the brown substance wiggled gelatinously when he did this, so he quickly stopped the motion.

He carefully cleared his throat and was gratified when he managed to make a sound. "What… is this?" he asked carefully, not really expecting an answer.

"That, Potter," Voldemort said with a snake-like grin sliding over his features, "is condensed soup on the rocks."

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AN: this is truly the worst thing i've ever written. hope you enjoyed! please leave a review :D


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